A plant outstretches its frame,
in steady growth and tenor;
A new leaf still wrapped unto itself,
must unfold to meet the world.

A universe appears,
and another dissipates;
Yet a leaf is born,
between the stars and dirt -
from the dust and decay.

A sapling reaches for sun and rain,
as I search for pen and paper.
After all,
We all do what we can.

Six assorted buzzards and kites
claimed this sky today,
their joyed metallic calls proclaimed above me
while I pottered slightly mournfully below
in a fecund but disappointing garden

From their strident majesty
I should take inspiration
and bend the land to match their empire

I got as far as picking some crisp packets
out of a hedge

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  An Unskilled Rotor-Tiller Tiller of the Soil

Plough Monday was by-passed some weeks ago
The Virus of Many Names kept me abed
And then the snow and ice kept me inside
And then – indolence, indolence, okay?

But today, oh, today!

The morning was fresh and cool and damp and still
I wheeled the tiller into the garden patch
Fresh gasoline, then primed the little bulb
And turned the red plastic lever just so

And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And said bad words
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And pulled the cord
And snarled bad words
And pulled the cord –

Pow!

For smoke and fire
And noise – hooray!
Then forward the tines

The tines at first bounced off the new green grass
I pulled the smoke and noise machine back, back
And held the smoke and noise machine in place
And wrestled it, pinning it to the earth until

It bit into the grass, the bright spring grass
And hurled it back, and then some earth, and more
And still more earth, sweet earth, the nourishing earth
Flung up and out and back again, and down

And there the earth must rest for a few weeks
Then to be turned again, sweet and warm
To receive the ready seeds of happy new life
And join in the miracle of Creation

And in the summer when the soft breezes blow
Zinnias and sunflowers and wild marigolds
Will lift their heads and sing hymns to the sun
And bees and hummingbirds hum the “Amen”

And in those days I will speak kind words
To them all, and study rotor-tillers no more

Some days I want to paint,
some times I want to be painted.

Some days I want to write,
some times I want to be written.

Some days I want to read,
some times I want to be read.

Some days I want to be a gardener,
some times I want to be the flower of that garden.

Some days I want to live,
some times I want to breathe in peace.

We make music when we walk
Shoes laced with guitar strings
Hearts beating to the metronome in my head
When you speak violin comes out
The flowers embedded in your heart are dying
The light in your eyes have burned out
The optimism has drifted from your voice
And left you with hollow bones
The music we played went flat
The waves stopped coming
The sun stopped shining
And my heart stopped beating.

in the palm of her ruined hands
was a single seed

if she grew one flower
spring would be in her sights

but winter pulled her down
together they were miserable

she could not bring change about
and so spring never came around

I raise the pick-axe high up above my head.
I bring it back down with all my might.
I hear an audible thud at it pierces into the ground.

I change my grip.

The soil turns over as I pry it out of the ground.
I smile to myself in satisfaction at the sight of the churning soil.
It is a calm, soothing sight, worth the magnitude of the effort required to produce it.

I change grips as I ready myself and raise the pick-axe high up above my head once more.

I am the artist,
the Earth my canvas.
The pick-axe is my brush,
the chaos my muse.

Seeds will be sown
and vegetation will be grown.
Spoils will be shared
and cheer will be spread.

But for all the good that is done,
I am the one having all the fun,
for this sight is for me,
this art is my own.